


Fuck Mr. Brightside

by rivers_bend



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-15
Updated: 2011-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Mike doesn't touch Tommy's dick, and one time he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck Mr. Brightside

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know any of the people whose public personas are used in this story and neither believe nor mean to imply this ever happened.

Beer cans do not make good pillows. Although, if he had to choose, Tommy would pick cans over bottles. If he had been capable of choosing, though, he would have picked an actual pillow. And a bed instead of the floor. The Jaeger bombs might have been a bad idea.

"Fucking Jaeger bombs," comes a croak from the other side of the coffee table Tommy can feel pressed against his shoulder.

Apparently Tommy wasn't the only one who didn't make it to bed. It sounds like Mike. Which... is probably good, because Tommy's pretty sure it was just him and Mike here last night, so an extra person would be unexpected. There's an aluminum crinkle, the chinking noise of two bottles rolling together, and a groan. Tommy would totally peer through the legs of the coffee table to see what the fuck Mike is doing, except his eyes seem to be glued shut.

"Where the fuck are my pants?" Mike says.

Tommy finally gets his eyes open. And yep, Mike is definitely in his boxers. Tommy... is not.

"Where the fuck is your underwear?" Mike says, and Tommy can't argue with the fact that that is a more pressing question.

"Mragh," Tommy says.

"Fucking Jaegar bombs," Mike says again, pulling the afghan off the chair and shoving it toward Tommy under the table. Tommy grabs it and pulls it over his hips and up to his chin.

He doesn't mention to Mike that his hand smells a lot more like jizz than alcohol.

**

Tommy wakes up with his neck on fire. He refuses to believe he's too old for this--they probably just need a better couch. "We've got to stop playing video games until we fall asleep," Tommy says, groggily, poking Mike in the thigh with his toes.

Mike jumps like Tommy electrocuted him. That's when Tommy notices that Mike has his hand in his pants. _Had_ his hand in his pants. The jumping seems to have dislodged it.

"What're you--" Tommy starts.

"Nothing!"

That's when Tommy notices he has his hand in his pants, too. And not in the past tense kind of way. Not the first time he's woken up cupping his junk, for sure, but maybe the first time when he's curled up on the sofa with his roommate. Tommy's eyes go to the TV screen, where the game is paused with one of the saloon girls on the screen.

"Are we jerking off to video games?" Tommy asks. That... would also not be a first for him. But he knows for _sure_ it's not something he's done on the sofa with his roommate. Or anyone. Because that shit is private.

"Okay," Mike says. "Yeah. We're doing that."

"I'll leave you to it, I think," Tommy says, pulling his hand out of his sweats slowly, like he's trying to not spook a horse. "Gonna go to bed."

"Yeah," Mike repeats. "Yeah."

When Tommy wakes up again, Mike's gone to work.

**

Mike is out; Tommy can't remember where, but he definitely has plans for the night. They talked about it this morning. Out is not Mike's favorite place, so Tommy takes advantage. He drinks a whole bottle of wine while he's playing video games in his underwear, and then switches over to Netflix. But he's watched everything he feels like watching, so he digs through the DVD drawer instead. And decides it's totally cool to watch your roommate's porn if he leaves it in the living room.

Tommy doesn't actually mean to jerk off on the couch. In his experience, Mike's porn is usually of the man-rings-doorbell-woman-lets-him-in-they-fuck variety, which is fine but not gonna get Tommy there if he wasn't in the mood to start with, but in this one a dominatrix in thigh-high boots and a corset is ordering five guys (inexplicably wearing nothing but Caterpillar boots) to fuck and suck and finger and lick each other while she corrects any misdeeds with a snap of her riding crop, and Tommy's hand has crept below the waistband of his briefs by the time she lays a stripe across the second guy's ass.

He's jerking himself slow and firm, boggling a little at the complicated twist of limbs required to get so many guys sucking so much cock in one place, listening to the Domme murmur encouragement and praise, when a movement catches the corner of his eye. His gaze jerks to the doorway to the hall, and Mike's standing there, all sleep-mussed hair and pale skin, hand down his boxers.

"Um," Tommy says. He can't decide if it would be better to get his hand out of his underwear or leave it there, avoid calling undue attention to it. "Thought you went out tonight?"

"We watching porn?" Mike says. Which Tommy's pretty sure is a total non sequitur, even though patently that is what they're doing.

"No?" Tommy says, sliding his hand as unobtrusively as possible from his briefs.

"Okay," Mike answers, and turns, heads back down the hall.

Tommy hits stop, turns off the TV, and sits in the dark until he's sure Mike's back asleep, and then for another twenty minutes for good measure, before heading to bed himself.

**

It's a miracle that Mike said yes when Tommy asked if they should have a housewarming party, but he did, so Tommy's going with it. Who the fuck cares they've been in the new place eleven months already. Tommy kinda figured now he has a little money he'd actually _host_ and all, but old habits die hard, and almost everyone brings a bottle. Or two. Or in the case of Mike's old friend, Elliot, who is randomly in LA even though he lives in Spain now, a keg. There's just a whole fucking lot of booze is what Tommy's saying.

Despite this, or maybe because of it--because someone's gotta keep at least a little eye on the house and Mike seems to be _not_ abstaining even a little bit--Tommy's mostly sober. He's having a good time, though, seeing people he hasn't seen in ages, introducing them to his new friends, seeing if they mingle the way he thought they would. Dara, who he dated a couple of times before she started sleeping with her brother's college roommate, is practically sitting on Sasha's lap, rubbing her arm while Sasha talks pointedly about her girlfriend. Tommy did not know Dara swung that way. It's pretty hot.

He does the right thing though, and rescues Sasha from Dara's drunk-ass, clueless clutches, saying Terrance needs her outside, and leads Dara to the kitchen to get her some water. There's a difference between flirting and molesting Tommy's friends, and Dara's over the line. He's filling up a party cup at the sink for her, keeping an eye out as she veers toward one of Cam's friends who Tommy knows is both single and very able to take care of herself, when he hears, "So how many times have you seen Tommy's dick?" from the other side of the refrigerator. He can't tell who said it, but it's definitely Mike who answers, "I dunno. A bunch."

He doesn't say it like, why the hell are you asking how often I've seen my friend's dick, but like-- Tommy's not actually sure what it's like, but it is a little weird.

He shoves the water at Dara, says to Kelly--Katie, whatever Cam's friend's called--"Look after her will you?" and heads toward the conversation.

He's almost there when he hears not-Mike say, "So is mine prettier?"

If this were a movie, Tommy would round the corner and no one would be showing anyone their dick, and it would all be some kind of hilarious misunderstanding. Tommy's life is not a movie. He turns to find Mike and Anderson--he should have known--standing in the little pantry with their dicks out.

"Tommy's is prettier," Mike says just as Tommy opens his mouth to ask what the fuck they're doing.

"Ooh, Tommy!" Anderson crows. "Fabulous. You can show us."

Tommy has no intention of showing them. None at all. But somehow Mike-- _Mike_ \--is pulling him forward by his wrist and Anderson has his hands on Tommy's fly, and the next thing he knows all three of them are standing in the pantry at a kind of hugely populated party with their cocks out.

"Fuck," Anderson says. "You're right. It's totally prettier."

Tommy doesn't look. There's a can of peaches over Anderson's right shoulder that is suddenly the most fascinating thing Tommy's ever seen.

"Told you," Mike says, and loosens his grip on Tommy's arm. Tommy pulls it out of his grasp and does his pants back up.

"You guys are fucking wasted," he says, and goes to find another drink.

Possibly ten drinks.

Getting out your junk to show your friends your purple nuts when you've had the snip, or showing off the new tatt you got at the top of your thigh, or whatever, is one thing. But it's fucking weird to catch your friends talking about whether or not your dick is pretty.

A whiskey in one hand and a beer in the other, Tommy escapes to the living room and joins Isaac and LP who are in the middle of a conversation about why drummers should never be required to wear shirts.

"Tommy could never be a drummer," Isaac says.

LP agrees.

Even if he weren't too busy drinking to speak, Tommy would so not be arguing.

**

Tommy hates grocery shopping. Mike hates grocery shopping. It's kind of a problem. Dave kinda liked it, but he refuses to do it for them when he doesn't live with them, which means they have to work out some kind of schedule. Except they both find all kinds of reasons they can't do their scheduled shop. Which sometimes means they go together when the cupboards are bare, and sometimes they flip for it, or play a randomly selected video game--though Tommy's pretty sure Mike's marked Streetfighter somehow so he can pull a quick switch when he holds the choices behind his back, because there's no way Tommy's that unlucky--but today Mike says, "Wrestle you for it."

They're on the floor, Tommy's arm hooked around Mike's neck, Mike trying to wrap his legs around Tommy's waist, when Tommy remembers that less than a week ago, Mike was talking to Anderson about Tommy's dick. And the fact that they think it's pretty. Twisting to get a better hold, Tommy pins Mike's legs and jabs an elbow into his spine. "Are you trying to get in my pants?" he asks.

Mike stills. Freezes. "Nooooooo," he says. Tommy can't tell if it's a no with _oh, god, yes, how did he know?_ undertones, or if he's giving himself time to figure out if Tommy's asking because he wants in Mike's pants.

"Because there was that whole thing by the fridge," Tommy says, elbow still in Mike's back pinning him face down. "With Anderson," he clarifies, because he'd be surprised if Mike's party memories are particularly clear, and Mike's not saying anything.

"Oh," Mike says, twisting to look Tommy in the face. "Yeah, no. Wanted to get in Anderson's pants."

Tommy has no idea what to say to that, so he sits up, gives Mike room to do the same.

"Anderson," he says. _Anderson?_ He doesn't even know where to start. That's his only excuse for going for the stupidly obvious. "But you like girls."

Mike's mouth literally drops open before he starts laughing so hard he has to steady himself against the edge of the couch.

"You--" he sputters. "You. Did not--"

Tommy really wishes he hadn't, but he can't exactly deny it.

"How many times?" Mike asks, gasping for breath.

"Shut up."

"How many times have you complained about Adam Lambert saying that to you?"

"Shut _up_." Tommy says. "That's not the point."

"What's the point, then?"

"The point is Anderson is so-- Anderson. And you're so, you."

Mike does that thing where his face doesn't change at all, but you know he's thinking you're either insane or stupid.

"Okay," Tommy says, starting again, pretending he never said that thing about liking girls. "So you--we're gonna ignore the party for a minute--like, don't really drink. And your idea of a good night is the sofa and your laptop. And it's much more important to you that your music sounds good than that people know you wrote it."

Mike nods, looking like he thinks Tommy is gonna start making sense any second now.

"Anderson is-- not any of those things."

"I apparently missed the part where I said something that makes you think I wanna marry the guy."

"But you--"

"Said I wanted to get in his pants. He's pretty. And I thought it might be interesting to make out with someone pretty like that with a dick." Mike reaches out to poke Tommy's knee with his toes. "Just because you wanna marry the guy whose dick you'd like to get all over--"

"I don't--" Tommy says, but Mike's already giving him the don't-even-start look.

"You pinned me, I guess," Mike says, sounding smug even though he lost. "Gimme the shopping list."

**

It's been raining for three days and anywhere else on _earth_ that wouldn't mean anything except that it's been raining for three days. But in LA, apparently, that's a good reason for the electricity to go out. For twelve hours. Someone else might call a friend, see if he had juice and head over there until PG &E got their shit together, but Tommy can't be bothered. He has his guitar and a bottle of whiskey that tastes just fine without ice.

He definitely started out playing on the couch, but as the light faded he must have come over here to the windows where the light was better. That's the only explanation Tommy can think of for coming to with his forehead dented by the sliding-glass-door runner and a patch of drool under his chin.

When he tries to move, a discordant jangling thump drills through his skull as a sharp pain rocks his knee.

"Don't fucking break your guitar," Mike says.

Tommy tries to protest that he's not, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, and Mike's lifting the instrument out of harm's way, so there doesn't seem to be much point putting any actual effort into it.

"You scared of the dark?" Mike nudges the empty bottle of bourbon with his toe so it rolls and bumps into Tommy's shoulder. "Wasn't this full this morning?"

Mike is such a little bitch. "Su bssssh," Tommy says. He tries to move again, and oh, fuck, yes. The bottle was full, and now all of it, and possibly everything else Tommy's had to drink ever in his life is in his bladder. Flailing gets him a bruise-to-be where he slams his wrist on the door frame, but also a hand full of Mike's jeans which gives him enough leverage to start to sit, and, bonus, calls his roommate's attention to the fact he needs some fucking help here.

"Jesus, you're toasted." Mike sounds irritated, but he's bending down and hauling Tommy to his feet, so his opinion on the subject of Tommy's sobriety is irrelevant.

Plus, Tommy still totally knows the word irrelevant, so he can't be that toasted. So what if he can't actually say it. Or stand unaided.

Mike had walked away as soon as Tommy was on his feet, so when Tommy starts to fall there's enough momentum behind it to send Mike stumbling into the sofa, grabbing Tommy and dragging him down on top of his flailing legs.

"Gonna piss," Tommy mumbles into Mike's t-shirt.

The flailing gets instantly more dramatic, and the next thing Tommy knows he's being hauled to his feet and dragged toward the bathroom, Mike muttering darkly about fucking who gives a shit.

When he deposits Tommy in front of the toilet, he lets go slowly enough that Tommy manages to mostly keep his feet if you ignore the swaying and the slightly alarming lurch toward the wall, but when Tommy tries to give his hands the message that now is the time to undo his fly, they completely ignore him. "Gonna piss," he says again; maybe they'll listen if he says it aloud.

"Jesus fucking useless," Mike says. Tommy hadn't noticed he was hanging around. Hanging around and getting his fingers all up in Tommy's business.

"What?" Tommy says, twitching feebly in the direction of Mike's handsy-ass... hands.

"You piss in your pants it's gonna stink, and probably get on the floor and I'm not cleaning that shit up. Stand still; christ."

Tommy leans back against Mike's chest, which helps with the standing still thing, and lets him fumble Tommy's pants open and pull his dick out. "My dick," Tommy says.

"Yes, your fucking dick. Shut up and piss."

Carefully, Tommy looks down to see that Mike is actually aiming him toward the toilet, and he lets go.

And wow, time is moving really really slowly, because he's pretty sure he's been pissing _forever_.

"Dude, you gonna be done any time soon? I'm not exactly dying to hold your dick for the rest of the night here."

"You love it," Tommy says. Mike totally loves it.

"I would love it if you'd finish up here so I could fucking wash my hands for a month, is what I'd love."

Tommy would actually kind of love that too, because lying down would be super awesome right now. And finally, he's done. And for someone who has a dick himself, Mike is lame at shaking a guy off when he's been pissing, so Tommy shoves him out of the way and takes over.

"If you were faking it to get me to touch your junk, you're an asshole," Mike says, glaring down at Tommy's dick.

"Fuck off." Tommy tucks himself away and half spins, half trips to reach the sink where he wets his hands.

"Go to bed, freak," Mike retorts, turning the hot water on higher and pumping himself a handful of soap.

Best advice of the night.Tommy follows it.


End file.
